The Thread
by Elphaba01
Summary: Love weaves one soul to embed itself to another, with complicated threads of climaxes and peaceful confessions to knit into the beautiful, colourful fabric she calls life. She just has to take one weave at a time. / One-shot! Glitter Blizzard's Olympian Challenge.


_I love you._

Three words that seem so simple yet so daring and extreme, so delicate to do wrong yet so important to overlook, so intricately planned yet not too much so to make it somewhat unnatural – she's seen it all unfold, makes all the plans that even Athena herself seemed sometimes impressed.

Love weaves one soul to embed itself to another, with complicated threads of climaxes and peaceful confessions to knit into the beautiful, colourful fabric she calls _life_.

It always brakes Aphrodite's heart into shatters when she'd see a lonely old man walking along a pavement, or a ratty ancient hag shouting at young children for her bitterness – their threads got lost somehow many nights ago, knotted into someone else's piece that made them land to where they were now: plodding along an unaccompanied road without their destined lovers to walk beside, empty and _missing something_.

She always has to convince herself that it isn't her fault. It's the Fate's – destiny isn't in her control. Only love, only lust, only beauty, only sexuality and pleasure and _desire_ is in her hands.

The goddess strolls along the busy streets of New York, her glossy red stilettos clicking against the wet pavement and her long blonde curls, styled to perfection, bouncing, sheltered under her black umbrella. This time, she has chosen to appear mysterious, with a dark net feather hat and a matching slim dress that pronounced her curves, a puffy fur coat, glossy red lips just like the colour of roses – an alluring colour that seems to get certain bravado men _reeling_.

Within every curious glance she gave to each mortal passerby, she remembered their tales, their threads – that pale blond man lost his love just last week, and is still in such pain that Aphrodite feels a pang of guilt (but in all honesty, their love was too passionate to last for long, it's how it works...); the young Italian child – why, _she'll_ get around, certainly, the cheeky girl; the homeless man sitting on the curb just because he needs the money that paid for his home to go towards his diseased wife's health bills...

Drug addicts that started because of being dumped. Broken-hearted girls sobbing. Prostitutes feeling disgusted in themselves and lustful towards a certain client. Hormonal boys moaning about their needy girlfriends.

Aphrodite has seen all of this before.

She crosses over at the nearest headlights with assured, small strides, having purpose in every step she takes and a calming determination. Everyone's gazes seem to be fixated on her for a second, breathless and amazed, in awe at her grace and elegance. She smiles at them all – even the tipsy happy driver that honked their horn in appreciation. Aphrodite doesn't have time to reprimand them, snap at them for their impoliteness – not today.

She sees him sitting on a bench.

Knitting her eyebrows, she makes her way towards him, acting nonchalant and without a motive. He's on the bench that's on the verge of collapsing, hugging his legs towards his chest as if it was his lifeline and resting his chin on his knees. A cheap, chequered maroon jumper that's several sizes too big clings limply to his cocoa-coloured skin, the rain dampening his loose-fitting ripped jeans and his intense black curls. His usually warm brown eyes stare back at Aphrodite in what possibly could be a warning glare, but she knows he's too depressed to even have the energy to do so.

The whole scene is so utterly _sad_ – even more sad than the visions she saw in Olympus. It looks so _real_ and _gritty_ and Aphrodite recites in her head that this is what love is sometimes. Pathetic. Unclear. Upsetting.

Motivated by not only her goal but the scene that played out in front of her, she takes a seat next to him, raising her umbrella that little bit more to protect not only her but the boy, too. It's like she's trying to shield him against the hardened darts of unrequited love, shooing all the hurt away – but really, it's only raindrops.

It's only raindrops.

She waits for a good half hour, quietly anticipating for him to suddenly burst and talk. Feeling his curious glances in the corner of her eye, she continues to act blasé, observing the traffic and smirking every now and then when he's not looking.

The moment – perhaps she's brave enough to admit it's the most rewarding in the last hundred years – when he snaps is the part where she's amused, trying to hide her smirk but she realises immediately she cannot hide it. It's prominent, and most likely looks rude with her sly red lips.

"_What_?" he barks, his head turning quickly at her in annoyance. "_What_ are you _doing_?"

She feigns a look of surprise. "Me?" she says, aghast.

"Yes, you," he replies impatiently.

"Well." She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs and leaning back on the rickety back of the bench. Splinters dick into her spine, but she ignores it. "Aren't I allowed to sit on a bench?"

He crosses his eyebrows. "But you've been sitting there for _hours_!" he wails. _A bit of an exaggeration_, notes the goddess. "Are you waiting for someone or something?"

"No," she answers with a shake of her head. "I just love a rainy day, don't you?"

He shrinks back into himself, hastily shaking his head and resting his chin back on to his knee.

"Why are _you_ here? I imagine you'll catch your death if you sit here much longer," she advises. "You really need more clothes."

"Don't you think I know that?" he argues. "My mom – she doesn't think – I'm – it's just _clothes_," he sighs. "She doesn't really _understand_."

"Why ever not?"

He runs a hand through his knotted, black curls. "It's hard to explain, you know."

"I'm in no rush, I assure you."

He blinks at her. "Um, OK," he says unsurely, and its then when she figures that she's cracked open the egg! Its more exciting than it should really be, really. Gathering a breath, he continues, "I really, _really _like clothes. You know those supermodels? The ones with the dresses and high heels and the bitchy Ice Queen face?"

Aphrodite laughs, throwing her head back and her blonde curls tumbling down her back. "Yes, I do."

"I _love_ all of that," he murmurs, smiling at her – and he does, admittedly, look pretty when he's smiling. "Just... my mom... she doesn't." He pauses, biting his lip, reflecting momentarily. "She thinks I should be into cars and guns and Grand Theft Auto. There's a fifth one out, you know, and she's been wanting to give it to me on my birthday for _weeks_."

"But you don't _like_ that!" she gushes, widening her kaleidoscope eyes that seems to daze the boy momentarily. "How awful!"

He shrugs. "That's not the worst of it."

Silence falls for a few minutes, the hum of the city sounding somewhat blurred and muffled – the boy feels insecure like all fifteen-year-olds, obviously; he's told one of his most secret confessions to a _stranger_, some sort of majestic _model_ of all people. But despite the struggle he had in telling her, she knew all of this already. The drama about fashion – ah, she's lived with him through it. Every punch and wound he gained she felt, perhaps even more profoundly than him.

It's the _worst of it_ that matters today. It's what she's been walking all over New York in damn stilettos for, what she's dismissed her prudish manner for, what she has given up her few relaxing days in Olympus for.

"What's the worst of it?" she suddenly asks, breaking the silence between them.

"You really want to –"

"Yes," she cuts in, not waiting for any objections.

He unties his arms to cross over his chest, sinking lower in his part of the bench – there's an unsaid divide between the two – and cheeks burning red. He doesn't say anything for what seems like hours, but again, she's uncharacteristically patient until he finally admits. "It's this boy at my school," he confesses. "He's called Ryan. I, um –" he coughs, "I like him. A lot."

Cringing, he looks up from the pavement to see her grinning uncontrollably. Aphrodite doesn't mean to seem so unprofessional, it's just it's all so _exciting_ and _di immortales_, it's not even a job!

"Wonderful!" she trills, clapping, even though she already _knows_. "How is Ryan like? Is he _gorgeous_?"

"He likes soccer," he suggests. "And he's some sort of a jock, you know? He laughs all the time and he's sort of stupid but – but he's _Ryan_." He says this as if it answers everything. "I sit behind him in Math."

"The back of his head really sexy?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I like sexy backs of heads," she acknowledges, and it makes him laugh. "Why is this such a bad thing?"

Immediately, his smile drops, and his shoulders sag. "He doesn't love me," he says. "He doesn't play for _my team_, if you know what I mean."

"Oh." It hasn't occurred to her, from all the years and strategic planning of his love life, that he might have such a tragic viewpoint such as this. "How do you – how do you know?" she asks, properly _stunned _this time. She should've known, really, but this time she's truly clueless concerning his viewpoint.

"Ryan likes _girls_," explains the boy as if he's talking to a three-year-old, not a highly powerful goddess who can determine whether he finds his true love or not. "You know, he's the quarterback. Likes sluts, falls for cheerleaders."

"Why do _you_ love _him_, then?"

"I don't –" he starts in denial, shaking his head feverishly and blushing, before he stops and remembers the content of the conversation. "He's the only one that doesn't treat me like shit," he corrects. "He stood up for me once. Right in front of everyone. Shouted at his own friends for being a bunch of homos, you know, and he was the only one that apologised."

"I don't believe he chases after girls," she tells him. And she's not lying – she never has been. "I believe he gets pushed towards them. It's _your_ duty to pull him back and into your arms, Ralph."

It doesn't really occur to the boy that she oh-so-suddenly knows his name, or that she's coming to all the correct conclusions with only an hour's conversation to base it all off on. All he focuses on is the assuring grip she has on his hand – her hand, pale as milk, has such an everlasting warmth that he feels as if he's been cold all his life and has only just rose out of darkness.

The look in his eyes is love, Aphrodite knows.

And she smiles.

She has untied the knot in his thread.

* * *

**This was a challenge from the wonderful _glitter blizzard_ AKA Muffin, from the forum "Percy Jackson and the Land of Writing". I love Aphrodite, she's one of my favourite gods... hope you enjoyed it :3**


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